Aftermath

Author's note and disclaimer:

Reposted by request.

This is based on the book, but with a more mature concept of Howl's courting of young ladies and his moral code. I found Howl's predation on young virgins to be curious and got to thinking about possible causes while also looking into the rocky road of his and Sophie's developing relationship.

I do not own anything and write out of love of the story, not to benefit from Diana Wynne Jones' work.

AFF Warning:
Each chapter should have something citrus flavored, see Chapters for warnings.

HxOC in flashback, Lemon, M/M, anal, oral, non consensual

000O000

Chapter 1
In which Howl tries to be a good man

In the land of Ingary, which has seen its fair share of odd happenings thanks to the high number of witches, wizards and magical creatures that call it home, some quite extraordinary events happened one Midsummer's Day. That day saw the end of the Witch of the Waste at the hands of an enchanted scarecrow, the happy reunion of two men with their long separated, mixed up body parts and the bludgeoning of an ancient fire demon under the roof of one of the greatest wizards in all of Ingary or indeed the world.

The Wizard Howl, or Howell Jenkins as he remained in his own mind, then had to placate the even more formidable Hatter family and get used to having his heart back where it belonged. The former task was eased by the assistance of his beloved, Sophie Hatter, who, despite being an unwed adult of the opposite sex, refused to be removed from under his roof. He dared to hope she might also help him with the latter, considering it was she who had held his heart in her hands and willed him to keep living.

His young apprentice, Michael had asked to accompany the crowd back to the home of Sophie's disapproving stepmother due to his attachment to the youngest Hatter girl, Martha. (Who Michael still called 'his Lettie' for some reason.) The real Lettie, the middle daughter and until recently the reluctant focus of Howell's considerable charm, didn't uphold her stepmother's arguments as Lettie was under the weight her own crush on another wizard, one part of the previously co-joined men, the Wizard Ben Suliman. Prince Justin ,the King of Ingary's brother, was the other half, but he declined the invitation to the Smith mansion as he needed to let his brother know the happy outcome.

In the wizard's private retreat, two long fingers swirled scented oils in the bathwater as Howell's multi-track mind pondered the events of the day, calculated possible outcomes, weighed additional royal responsibilities and kept track of the multitude of spells keeping his almost ideal household going. It had been a busy day, to say the least, but he couldn't complain since he was currently relaxing in hot water, courtesy of a fire demon, formerly under contract to the wizard but now a free agent. Howell's right hand rubbed a circle on the left side of his bare chest. He scanned the shelves of bottles and packets of neatly arranged and forever ruined beauty spells and sighed. Sophie preferred things “natural” he knew, where his inclination was to disguise himself. Ironic then that she'd been the one to come into his life hidden.

A beautiful young woman hidden as a shriveled old crone, she seemed bent on turning his life upside down. Howell slid down under the surface of the water keeping his eyes open to look at the clean bathroom from a different vantage point. A distorted image of the familiar room floated past him. His life was like this now, familiar, but distorted. Howell blew bubbles and watched as little goldfish swam from them. He poked them with his finger and smiled as they popped. A simple illusion, but it always made him laugh, producing more bubbles, more goldfish.

The water felt lovely and he sighed as he reached up to pour more. A burst of cold hit his scalp and, shivering, he cursed. Calcifer, the amoral demon, was sending him a not so subtle message to finish up. Since the tub was still soothingly warm, Howell sat and began the real task of cleaning himself before bed. He'd missed his usual routine in the morning, so it was important to feel clean and beautiful again before seeing Sophie.

Happily ever after, he thought, should really begin with their first night together. Howell rubbed the washcloth down one arm and then the other. She'd looked so lovely in her rage against their common enemy today. His little May Day mouse. He'd lost her that day in Market Chipping and found her again today, Midsummer's Day. Howell washed his chest and stomach, the cloth stopping as he moved his hips to get more comfortable. If tonight was to be her first time, he wanted to be clean all over.

He didn't like to think of his first time. The emotions from that day were twisted, much like the experience itself. Howell had taken his A levels at age fourteen, and was on the university's killer rugby team by age seventeen. He loved sports as much as learning and was generally popular. Rugby Union was his love. He played back positions and mixed in with the older lads due to his natural (and sometimes not) speed. Being a bit of a wise ass, he was often assigned extra laps and one afternoon he'd come panting into the concrete stadium hallway. He reeked of mud and sweat, like he always did after practice and was mildly annoyed when the loosehead, Brigham, called to him from the equipment locker before he could get to the showers.

“Jenkins,” the older boy tossed his wet blond hair, cut into a Mohawk but now laying in all directions across his shaved scalp. Apparently he'd gone punk after a tour in the army. Howell figured it was half rebellion and half crewcut. Still, the guy'd been friendly all year, sometimes paying for food after games and basically trying to fit in. He was even trying to learn Welsh, though he'd grown up near London. They all got a laugh out of hearing him try the language.

“Hey, Brigham,” Howell wandered toward him, curious why he was hanging around after the rest of them had, no doubt, showered and left, exactly what Howell wanted to do.

“That was pretty funny, tripping our hooker like that.”

“Yeah,” Howell smiled, he'd almost forgotten what got him in trouble. He'd gotten a good coating of mud from it, but it was pretty funny to sweep the legs out from under the large forward. “Shw mae? You're still here?” He walked into the room where all the balls, rackets and assorted odds and ends were stashed. Brigham crossed behind him and closed the door, almost casually. In Howell's memory, all of the times the man had paid attention to him or kept eye contact seconds longer than needed, all the times the older boy had touched him on the field or off seemed to lead up to this moment, the harsh rasp of the lock turning. At the time it was a cold shock.

Brigham turned away from the door, his larger frame making the room seem suddenly smaller. The punker looked like he could've been the one out running; his face went red and his breath quickened as he took a step closer to Howell. “I've seen you checking me out, Jenkins. I know your kind. Seen it before.” The man smacked a large fist into an open hand and Howell jumped at the sound.

There was nothing he could say. This man would beat him to a pulp and he couldn't talk his way out of it. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Everyone looked, everyone compared, there was nothing homosexual about it, but facing his “friend,” he was suddenly unsure of himself. Howell liked sports where there was contact, some say rugby isn't a contact sport, it's a collision sport and that suited him fine. Was something wrong with him?

Brigham's voice changed, losing the menacing edge as he moved closer in the tight space, “C'mere, Howell, it's cool. You're not... I mean, I didn't mean to scare you.” He put his hand out to ruffle Howell's hair, but rested it on a shoulder after Howell dodged slightly. There wasn't room to maneuver in the closet and Howell felt the stack of tumbling mats jutting in from one side and the plaster wall a short distance behind him. In front was the imposing figure of the loosehead, a rugby forward chosen for size and strength, his hand pushing on Howell's shoulder like a weight.

“Easy there,” Brigham whispered, moving in even closer, forcing him back deeper between the mats and the wall. Howell had been sneaking off to Ingary for a year, but Mrs. Pentstemmon was training him too slowly and his powers were weaker in Wales anyway. If he could get Brigham to hold off a few days, he could maybe brew a tea to mend the broken bones he'd no doubt be getting! Otherwise he couldn't see much use to the magic he'd been taught up to now. Not against this. Since he was thinking along these lines, it was almost a relief when the man leaned down to kiss him. Howell was less afraid of the reality of being kissed than the fear of being hit. It felt weird though, another person's tongue gliding along his own, rubbing sensitive spots and touching his teeth. There was a slightly sour taste in his mouth, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Had it stayed like that, he could've dealt with it, maybe even accepted it, but all too quickly large hands were moving all over him, accompanied by a porn soundtrack of ragged breathing. Howell's soaked shirt was pushed up. Despite the damp chill, he wasn't cold. Brigham's hands were intent on rubbing every spot of exposed skin which at least kept Howell warm for a moment. It was when his thin shorts were pulled to his knees that he protested. “Hey! Na! Stop! What the—mmph!” his mouth was covered with a large hand and Brigham whispered hoarsely, “Peidiwch âchadw sðn! Shut up, arsehole! You want to whole place to know? I don't want to get caught again, but you'll get into more trouble than me.” Considering which one of them was now naked, Howell decided to keep quiet. It wasn't like he had a choice either way. Brigham looked down at him, smiled sadistically and took his hand away, kissing Howell's lips possessively.

His fingernails began scraping down Howell's chest and stomach before he tightly gripped the exposed dick. Howell almost yelled again, but Brigham moved, sticking three of his fingers into Howell's mouth and it so surprised him that he made a soft choking sound. He tried to figure out what was expected of him. His body was heating from his groin outward, hips twitching in time to the dragging motion. It was just wanking, right? When the fingers began to stroke his mouth like three tongues, Howell moved his tentatively, licking each one in turn. The larger boy groaned, “Yeah, that's the way.” Howell was too frightened to make another noise, but the hand on his penis kept stroking and he felt his body getting close. Suckling now on the fingers in his mouth, he moaned softly.

Brigham brought Howell's attention back from the brink with a slow descent, hot mouth kissing a line down Howell's chest to his navel and then ever downward. Nervousness rushed back at the thought of where it was heading. Howell staggered back the last step as if he could get away from Brigham's mouth by being flat against the wall. His tongue ejected the slick fingers. He shivered as they trailed saliva down to his nipples, first one side then the other hardening in the chilly air. The man in front of him ignored Howell's waving hands and whispered protests and moved on his knees to close the distance.

The wet heat of Brigham's mouth on the sensitive head of his cock, the flickering tongue wiping pre-cum in erotic bursts of pleasure, almost wrenched another shout, but this time Howell put his own fists to his mouth, biting the skin on the back of one rather than risk anything stopping this feeling. Again, his fear had been much worse than the wonderful feeling of warmth. A thrumming sensation told him Brigham was laughing as he ran his mouth along Howell's length.

“You like it now, you ponce? You want me to go on,” he said with his lips barely a centimeter away. Their eyes met and Howell realized the man wouldn't continue without some response, so he nodded despite the dirty feeling it gave. He heard himself whimper and moan as the older boy took his scrotum fully in, gently toying with it before moving back up. Brigham moved his tongue slowly along Howell's cock twice, swirling his tongue on the tip before pulling his mouth away, along with the rest of him.

Howell whined, leaned a hand against the wall and tried to regain his wits. Was that it then? He'd almost cum in Brigham's mouth! It was too embarrassing. “Can I go get cleaned up yet?” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to irritate the larger boy.

Brigham dug around in a gym bag that Howell hadn't noticed tucked away next to a cricket bat opposite the stack. The few minutes to think left him more confused than when he'd first stepped in the room and he put a hand up to his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart. The dim light prevented him from seeing what Brigham was looking for, but he shivered without contact just as the older boy gave a quiet cry of, “Here it is.” And “You're going to like this.”

As Howell crouched down to pull his shorts up, the older boy shifted back, rising up a little on his knees, a tube held in his hand. He pushed Howell back gently and took the shorts off him, shaking his head with a grin and tossing them aside. Brigham's hand cupped Howell's balls and he stood, one hand rubbing the sensitive area and one pulling at his own jeans, trying to unbuckle them. “C'mon, Jenkins, some help here.”

Howell reddened, wondering if he wasn't fumbling some aspect of this coupling. Brigham acted like it was normal procedure. Reciprocity seemed called for and yet he didn't want to put his hands, much less his lips around the other boy's privates so he looked on with mild horror before putting his fingers on the zipper and pulling quickly as if it were a practical joke, like the can full of snakes or something. It was lost on Brigham anyway as he hopped once, the jeans falling around his thighs. “Turn around,” he whispered into Howell's ear.

Howell was so grateful he wasn't going asked to touch the boy's dick, he turned gladly and looked at the rough wall centimeters from his face. There was mold growing along the join between the wall and the ceiling, that was the last thought he had before a greased finger began to force its way into his ass. “Fuck! Na! No!” He tried to turn, but the larger boy moved his body along the length of Howell's and began to kiss across his shoulder blades, careful to lick his face each time Howell threw back his neck in his thrashing.

“Stop. Shh! Relax, shh. Try and breathe,” Brigham whispered and Howell thought that was easier to say than to do when you had a huge finger sticking in your bum, but the finger pushed in deeper and began to move. In, out. In, out. In, out. Fingers rubbed his cheek before entering Howell's mouth and pulling out, trailing a line of saliva along to grab his faltering erection. He felt, well... hugged in a freaky sort of way, with Brigham's arms on either side of him.

The kissing and soft noises on his back did help him to relax, but it wasn't until the rhythm was well established that he could admit to himself- it felt good. Weird, but somehow exciting. “You're so tight,” Brigham moaned into Howell's ear as he inserted another finger. Awareness of the man's hard on rubbing against his thigh caused another flush of embarrassment to run through Howell's whole body. His muscles clenched on the fingers which had moved from their in and out pattern to a new, deeper scissoring motion. “Oh, Howell. Oh damn,” the man moaned, bending at the knee and kissing his back as he moved his body more directly behind Howell.

This time fears and the reality were on par as Brigham made him lean slightly so the larger boy could have more access. Howell whimpered into his closed fist and used that same hand to keep his face from being pressed up against the rough plaster as his buttcheeks were spread wide. His free hand tried to hold off the whole of the larger body, to no noticeable result.

Brigham kept up his patter about relaxing and interspersed it with moans about Howell's virginal hole. The man was going slow; that was a mixed blessing, Howell thought. It seemed an eternity for every inch to fit inside his raw skin and Howell let the tears flow down his face as Brigham pulled out slightly and then eased back in. “You're so tight, so good,” the words in his ear made him want to scream in anger. This was anything but good!

Gradually the pain began to ease and the slow feel of the older boy's movements weren't entirely bad. Fingers ran up and down his back, sending shivers in their wake. The burning feeling in his ass changed sensation the more it sped up. Howell had one hand on the wall and one resting on Brigham's hip. Without thinking about it, he found himself moving as well, pushing against the other boy and even clenching his muscles to hear another moan. He wanted it over, but he also liked that power. Power to make Brigham weak. Soon the soft groaning and the rhythm of flesh slapping was all that Howell could hear; it was as if his whole world narrowed down to that. Brigham seemed to remember Howell's dick in his hand and added that to the mix. It was too much for a seventeen year old who had learned to jack off only a few years earlier. His body shuddered and he fell against the wall, heedless of the scraping along his face and chest as the pounding behind him continued. Brigham let out a last moan and fell on Howell's back, pushing him harder against the plaster. After Howell felt the twitching of the boy's penis, it fell out and Brigham leaned his back against the tower of mats. Howell tried to move away from the wall as well, but almost fell. He felt empty, weak and dirty straight through. The man took Howell in his arms and hugged him, probably more to steady himself than out of any affection, but they both used the time to get their breath back. He sent Howell off to the showers alone and seemed to avoid him every rugby practice after. Howell didn't know whether he was supposed to hate him or love him, but the next month Brigham's family moved back to England and that was the last he heard of him. There were other boys from the various teams who hung out around the equipment room from time to time and Howell was occasionally tempted to check out what was going on, but averted his gaze and passed by quickly. Safer that way.

Years later, Howell and his brother-in-law fought over the validity of date rape, a phrase Gareth had read that day in the paper. Howell resented the view that the girl in the article got what she deserved. “Rape's one thing,” his brother-in-law said, “I grant you that, but you can't rape someone who went with you willingly.” It was the closest they came to a knock down brawl.

Howell knew better. Guilt and shame never quite wash out, no matter how many showers or baths you take. He knew he'd been used, coerced and abused, but he'd cum too, hadn't he? Usually he didn't think about it. He shuddered at the memory and got out of the tub.

Once done, dry and mostly happy with his reflection, Howell finally felt ready to see Sophie. An hour- not too long he hoped. Emerging from the bathroom like a butterfly from its chrysalis, Howell casually threw back the hanging sleeves on his black suit before noticing that he was not being watched by his beloved Sophie at all, but by the orange flaming eyes of Calcifer. “Ah,” Howell said, crossing the room without any further attempts at seduction.

“Howl, we need to talk,” the blue fire said.

“Can it wait? I was hoping...”

Calcifer made a face. To anyone else, it might have looked quite as evil as it was intended, but Howell had, until this very afternoon, a bond with the demon that merged them magically. They knew each other's nature as well as any two creatures could. There was no malice in him. Simply put, Howell thought, Cal was what he was, powerful and inhuman, but not evil. “I'm sure I know what you were hoping and I also know that we need to talk now,” Calcifer said.

Howell sighed as he perched himself gracefully on the stool near the hearth. “Fine then, but be brief.”

“Well, that's something. The great wizard Howl will talk to me.” Calcifer ignored the look that passed over Howell's face and hurried on, “I don't have to stay here, you know.”

Howell smiled fondly. “Of course, but you came back and we appreciate it.”

The fire settled slightly. “Well okay. I'm willing to share my power and keep the place going so long as I'm here.” They both knew that would be the case regardless. As soon as Calcifer returned, his power added to Howell's just as it had done under the contract. The demon gestured around his hearth, saying, “But I'm not going to be trapped here. You know I want to go where and when I want to.”

Howell resisted the smile that he felt. So that was the big thing Calcifer wanted to get off his chest? He had as much trouble with confrontation as Howell if that was the case. “That was already decided,” Howell said.

“Well... good. Just so we know that,” Calcifer looked uneasily at the curtained area under the stairs that had until today been Sophie's nook. “Well, uh, then there's Sophie. I need to know... what your plans...” he waved his spindly fire arms, “you know... for the future.” He flinched from the look on Howell's face.

“What,” the wizard asked dryly. “Is that to you?”

A silence fell on the room that made Howell realize he'd given the wrong answer. He looked around. “Where is she?”

“Gone to bed, lover boy.” Calcifer's voice was naturally cynical, so Howell took no offense at the tone. Still, he was confused. When he left she seemed as smitten as a man could hope for. She'd implied that she was his as much as he was hers.

“In my room?” he asked, his tone still somewhat hopeful. A snort answered him from behind the heavy sheets that divided Sophie's sleeping area under the stairs from the rest of the living area before Calcifer could. “And what is that supposed to mean?” Howell called out loudly to her before he could stop himself.

Sophie stuck her head out from between the curtains, ginger hair falling around a pretty face with a familiar look of moral superiority. Howell inhaled sharply, still surprised to see her face unlined and lovely after nearly a month of looking at her as an old woman. He recovered himself. “You don't need to stay in that small space anymore, Sophie.” He offered her his hand as he stood up, but she gave him one of her odd looks and kept her hands clutching the drapes.

“I don't mind,” a wariness crept into her voice, “just where did you intend for me to sleep?”

Had he misunderstood? Earlier she'd seemed solid in her love for him. Earlier she'd agreed to move upstairs. He looked at Calcifer when he heard a log spit as it burned, a sound that meant the demon was laughing to himself. The fire demon had gone into hiding. Sophie risked her life for Howell's happiness and she'd stood up to her family to remain with him, that put some confidence into his voice as he looked into her beautiful blue-gray eyes. “In my bed.”

Sophie's face flushed, though in anger or embarrassment Howell couldn't tell. “Don't you try that on me, Howl Jenkins! I know all about you. I know how you are with young women and don't try to deny it!” Her hands seemed to clutch the fabric even tighter around her face. “It may not be hearts or souls, but you do steal, don't you?” She referred to the erroneous rumors Howell had spread about himself to keep people from seeking out the castle. Michael had been too effective and Sophie spent untold hours looking for the hearts of his 'victims.' Howell would've laughed, but the look on her face and the sudden absence of Calcifer from the hearth checked his humor. The night wasn't cold, but with the fire gone, a strange chill descended.

Perhaps he should give up, go to bed alone, but... No, he couldn't let this be, he thought. This was to be the start of their lives together! “And what exactly are you getting at?”

“Well,” she seemed to realize that she was now completely alone with him. Completely. Alone. “I mean... with girls... the virgins...” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

The heart within Howell's chest was unused to sudden shocks and it gave him a sharp, painful complaint. Oh. Denial dropped away and for a second his usually busy mind cleared. He reached his hand up to his chest but tried to keep the grimace from his face. Calcifer told her, he thought. While Howell was in the bathroom, they must've talked. It made sense now. Calcifer would think she deserved the truth. So there it was. How much did he tell her? Everything? There was the truth and then there was the truth. Howell spent his adult life fleeing unpleasantness. Today the Witch laid him bare. She and her fire demon struck everywhere he was vulnerable and with Sophie's help he'd survived. Surely he was ready to confront this as well? Howell stopped shifting his feet; planting them firmly, he looked directly at her. “Yes.” He hoped his voice gave the illusion of strength.

Sophie's face crumpled and ducked back behind the fabric. Howell stood only a few feet away, unsure what to do. There goes happily ever after, he thought. His reputation was that of a brutal womanizer and one half of that was accurate. Heartless Howl courted a woman until she fell in love with him, then he lost interest and abandoned her. That part Sophie had known and that part was spoken of within the castle, but what he and Calcifer left out of the discussion, originally in deference to Michael's youth, was that Howell always took a token of the woman's love with him, her virginity. The crying girls, the crazy aunts, all of the complainants when he left one “true love” after another, they all had reason to be upset. He never argued, in fact he arranged never to be present for the aftermath and Calcifer resented it. Howell knew wherever his demon friend was right now he was laughing up a storm.

“Sophie,” he said, knowing his voice sounded pitiful, “please come out.” He'd always disliked those sheets, but now he wanted to tear them to shreds. He took the few steps necessary to touch the fabric, but then couldn't move. “Sophie,” he repeated. Her breathing was audible, close to him, fast and worried. His fingers twitched as he took one side of the drapes in his hand. “Sophie, stop this.”

“Or what? Slime again?” The voice was muffled slightly.

Howell smiled at that memory. He'd forgiven her for causing his tantrum the week after her arrival. Once the gray left her hair he understood why his had chosen to turn 'red gold'; at the time he'd been too disgusted to puzzle it out. On her, it was lovely. Howell let the rough fabric fall from between his fingers. With a wave of his right hand, the barrier between them was no more.

Sophie had indeed been standing mere inches away from him, but she now backed up against her bed with a look of panic on her face. Howell watched her as if that fear had nothing at all to do with him. Why should it? She was perfectly safe from him. He'd never hit her had he? Never harmed her at all, despite all of her provoking.

Sophie in her terror was every bit as beautiful as she'd been when she gazed calmly on him in love. She wore a chemise typical of this world, a white gown with an inset yoke that rose up to a high necked collar with tiny pearls, currently unbuttoned. It was worn under dresses as well as for bed. There was the faint outline of her slender body underneath, her breasts hidden behind crossed arms. Her hair was still in its braid, except where the afternoon's excitement had freed up strands that lay framing her face in such casual beauty that he longed to run his fingers through it.

Howell took one step closer, nothing separated them. Time seemed to be slowing down as his pulse and breathing sped up. Her eyes darted around him, possibly hoping Michael or Calcifer would appear. Interesting wasn't it, he thought, that she didn't resort to magic to protect herself? She was a talented and wild witch, after all. She'd stood up to the most powerful witch of their time but perhaps realized how dangerous that would be with him? To start using magic against him would free him to do the same. Or, he dared to hope, perhaps she didn't want to stop him, perhaps she wanted this to happen as much as he did?

“Sophie,” his voice darkened with passion. Almost giving in, he grabbed her shoulders and searched her face for any sign of permission. Her eyelids fluttered and she tilted her face up slightly, just enough. Howell brushed his lips lightly across her tightly pursed mouth giving featherlight kisses until she relaxed. His hands moved up, cradling her face. She pressed her body against his, eyes now fully closed. Had Sophie been one of his many conquests, Howell would've pushed on but he wanted a lifetime with her and that meant building trust, keeping his desires under control. Still, he was only a man. He had to enjoy his advantage, so he tried to soak in every detail about her, the feel of her skin, the scent in her hair; he memorized her face as she responded to his kisses, her sweet lips touching skin near his mouth, oblivious to the smile on his face. Her arms were free and her hands tentatively moved around his waist. With a peck on her nose, he gently moved her away. “Come Sophie.” Howell saw the confusion as she opened her eyes. “Come upstairs with me.” He ran his hands down her neck, her shoulders, arms. Taking her work calloused hands from his sides, he held them to keep her from running away.

“You bewitched me,” she tried half-heartedly. Sophie looked down when he laughed.

“I think you have that backwards.” Howell lifted her chin with his right hand and let his left arm ease over her shoulder, guiding her out and around, toward the stairs. “Your virtue's safe,” he leaned his mouth close to her ear. “Please,” he breathed, “Let me hold you.” Her body trembled quickly, but she smiled and didn't resist his lead until they stood in front of his bed.

“Howl?”

“Sit here.” He crossed the room to his crowded dresser. Howell looked over the whole room for a second, calculating which spells to keep and which to remove. A quick look out his window showed a rainy night in Wales. He turned his attention back to his current plan and picked up a hairbrush. He looked back and Sophie still stood at the foot of his bed, a look that threatened to turn stubborn on her face. “Here,” he put his hand on her back and eased her down with his other hand already in her hair.

“Howl,” she began, but he ignored her as he sat behind her on the bed and began to work his fingers through the ends of the braid, loosening it before drawing the brush through. “Those girls...”

Howell sighed and kissed the back of her head. “Cariad,” he began, “that was before--”

“My sister. Howl, you... you wouldn't have...” her voice faltered as he continued to brush, silent. “Well?” Her body language showed her conflicted feelings. She was perched on the very edge of the bed, tense, ready to flee, but enjoying the attention of the brush, of his hands.

Howell sighed, burrowing his head through her hair and nuzzling her neck. His arms pulled her closer, further onto the bed. “My love,” he began again, trying to find a way out of the discussion, “you smell so good.”

Her neck arched to give him more skin to nibble, though her voice didn't allow him such a break. “About Lettie, Howl. You stop trying to... ooooh,” she moaned as he hit a sensitive spot on the nape of her neck. Howell pulled her up to the pillows, turning her without resistance. He settled her along his fully clothed body. One of his arms cradled her head and the other hugged her around her waist as she lay facing his chest. Without conviction, she added, “you're a bad man, Howl Jenkins.”

“Wicked, or so I've been told,” he murmured to her hair. An Ingary girl in a Welshman's bed, he thought, what could be better? He wanted to feel her against him, but reminded himself to take it slow. He shushed her next comment. “I promise we'll have our talk,” he said, “but not now.” Having her so close, he was sure he couldn't possibly drift off, every nerve in his body seemed to want to tell him about her movements, but the events of the day took their toll. The family, the Witch, the demon, the dying, the proof of love, all of the excitement took its toll and their bodies succumbed to sleep.


A/N: Language disclaimer: Welsh is the oldest of the Celtic languages in use today. It is a beautiful and difficult language and I've done the best I can, but as a non-native speaker, errors will occur.

Shw mae: How's things
Na: No
Peidiwch âchadw sðn: Don't make a noise
Cariad: Beloved

Rugby shorthand:
The forwards are the larger players whose job it is comparable to American linebackers or tackles. Backs are the lighter, faster players comparable to American runningbacks. Each position has its own number (players don't get their own number) and is known by it's shorthand, like hooker, tighthead prop, loosehead prop, centre (inside and outside), etc.

I wrote the N/C scene to explore a possible motivation for his single minded chasing of young women. Not suggesting he's gay, more like an abused bisexual whose overcompensation includes accepting a powerful demon to quickly improve his magical abilities (to protect himself) and seeking out vulnerable young women to prove his heterosexual status while replaying his abuse in a “safe” manner with himself cast in the position of power, er... so to speak.